The silhouette at the archway did not move for a long second. Ines's heart, which had been hammering with terror, now seemed to stop entirely. She knew that shadow. She knew the breadth of those shoulders.
It was Carcel.
Lord Westhaven, still gripping Ines's arms, looked over his shoulder. "Who in the devil are you?" he demanded, though his voice wavered.
Carcel Anderson stepped out of the archway and into the moonlight. He was, Ines thought in a daze, the most dangerously beautiful man she had ever seen. He was not smiling. His dark eyes were flat and cold, and they were fixed, not on Ines, but on Westhaven's hands.
He did not rush. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, like a panther that knows its prey is already cornered. His footsteps on the gravel path were the only sound, measured and silent.
Westhaven, faced with the sudden appearance of a Duke known for his short temper and his skill with his fists, finally stopped touching Ines. He took a hasty, clumsy step back, trying to regain his dignity.
"Your Grace," Westhaven stammered. "I was just… escorting Lady Ines. She was cold."
Carcel did not stop until he was standing directly in front of Ines, shielding her from Westhaven. He did not look at her. He simply reached out, his movements careful, and took Westhaven's hand. The one that had been on Ines's wrist.
He did not strike him. He simply unwrapped the man's fingers from Ines's arm, holding onto Westhaven's hand as he did so. He handled it as if he were removing something unclean.
With his other hand, Carcel shrugged off his own black evening jacket. It was still warm from his body. He wrapped it gently, almost impersonally, around Ines's shoulders. It was large, falling nearly to her knees, and it smelled of him—clean soap, starch, and a faint, sharp scent of the night air. She clutched it shut, her body shaking so hard her teeth chattered.
Only then, with Ines safely wrapped, did he turn his full, terrifying attention to the other man.
"What did you say?" Carcel's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "You want her to be your mistress?"
Westhaven's face went pale. The blood drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking sallow and sick in the moonlight. "How much did you hear?" he whispered.
"Enough," Carcel replied, his voice still quiet. "Enough to beat you to a pulp."
He turned his head just enough to speak to Ines, who stood frozen behind him. "Turn around, Lady Ines. And do not look back unless I tell you to."
It was not a request. It was a command, spoken with a deep, quiet authority that she had never heard from anyone, not even her brother. It was the voice of a man who was used to being obeyed without question.
Ines nodded dumbly, her throat too tight to speak. She turned her back to the two men, her gaze fixed on the dark, rustling leaves of the rose bush. She squeezed her eyes shut. She was breathing in the scent of Carcel's jacket, her heart thumping a new, strange rhythm. She was terrified, but it was a different fear now. It was a vibrating, electric feeling.
She heard Carcel's voice again. It was not loud. It was terrifyingly calm.
"Which hand did you touch her with?"
There was silence. Ines could hear Westhaven's panicked, shallow breathing.
"I'll ask you one more time," Carcel said, his voice dropping even lower. "Which hand did you use to grab her?"
A trembling, broken voice answered. "This one... my right hand."
Then, Ines heard it.
It was not the dull thud of a fist meeting flesh. It was a sound that was wet, sharp, and sickening. A crack. It was a sound that did not belong in a civilized garden. It was the sound of something breaking.
It was followed by a terrible, high-pitched scream that was cut off almost as soon as it began. There was a thud, and the sound of a man gasping and sobbing on the gravel.
Ines flinched so hard she nearly cried out herself. Her hand flew to her mouth, and she tasted the smooth satin of her glove. Her stomach twisted. He had… he had broken it. He had broken his hand.
She heard Carcel's voice again, a low, menacing growl that was meant for Westhaven alone.
"If you come anywhere close to her again, I will forget you have a family and end your life. If you don't fear her brother, you should fear me."
There was another moment of silence, filled only by Westhaven's pathetic whimpering. Ines heard a rustle of fabric. She pictured Carcel taking out a handkerchief, wiping his fist. The image was so clear, so brutal, that she felt faint.
A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, her eyes flying open.
Carcel stood before her. He looked completely calm. His cravat was perfect. His dark hair was unmussed. If not for the dangerous light still glinting in his eyes, he could have just come from a glass of lemonade. Westhaven was a crumpled heap on the ground behind him, clutching his arm to his chest, his face pale with agony.
"It is done," Carcel said simply. He offered her his arm. "Let's go."
Ines was shaking too hard to walk. She looked from his face, to the man on the ground, and back to his offered arm. She took it, clutching him as if he were the only solid thing in the world. He was. His arm was like iron beneath her fingers.
He led her out of the garden. They walked in complete silence, back through the maze of hallways. The sound of the orchestra grew louder, a jarring, cheerful sound that felt like it belonged to a different world. She was intensely aware of his jacket, his warmth, his solid presence beside her. He did not speak. He just walked, his expression grim and set.
He broke a man's hand, she thought, her mind replaying the sound. He did it for me. He didn't challenge him to a duel. He didn't shout. He just… finished it.
They emerged from the corridor into the blazing light of the ballroom. Ines blinked, feeling exposed and raw. She was still clutching his jacket around her.
Rowan was standing near the entrance, his face a mask of impatience as he scanned the crowd. His eyes found them.
Rowan's expression changed in an instant. He saw his sister, pale as a ghost, her hair undone, and wrapped in a jacket that was very clearly not hers. His gaze snapped to the man whose arm she held.
"Carcel," Rowan said, moving to them in three long strides. His eyes darted between them, his protective, brotherly instincts on high alert. "Thank goodness. What happened? Ines, are you alright?"
Carcel released Ines, giving her a gentle push toward her brother. Rowan immediately took her arm, steadying her.
"I took care of it," Carcel said to Rowan, his voice clipped and final. He was already straightening his waistcoat, the perfect gentleman once more. "I am sure it won't happen again."
Rowan looked at his best friend. He saw the cold fury still lingering in Carcel's eyes. He saw the graze on his knuckle that he was already hiding. He looked at Ines, who was trembling. He did not need to ask what "it" was. He understood.
"Carcel… Thank you," Rowan said, his voice full of a gratitude so deep it was almost painful.
Ines finally found her voice. She had been insulted, assaulted, and rescued. She felt like she had lived a year in the last ten minutes. She turned to the man who had saved her, who had defended her honor in such a swift and brutal way.
"Your Grace," she began, her voice small and shaky. "I… I must thank you. You saved me. And my reputation…"
Before she could finish, Carcel gave a short, stiff bow. It was a bow for a stranger.
"Rowan," he said, nodding to his friend. "Lady Ines."
And then he turned. He walked away, melting back into the glittering crowd without a backward glance.
He was gone.
Ines stared at the place where he had been. He had saved her, and he had fled. As if he could not stand to be near her for one moment longer. As if she were merely a problem he had been forced to solve.
A cold, sharp stone of disappointment settled in her stomach, heavier and more painful than the fear had been. She had wanted to... she did not know what she had wanted. But she had wanted more than that cold, dismissive bow.
She hid the feeling, tucking it away, just as she had hidden her manuscript. She turned to her brother, pulling Carcel's jacket tighter. The mask of the "Icy Lady" was firmly back in place, though her eyes were far too bright.
"Rowan," she whispered. "I want to go home."
Rowan looked at his sister, at the dark, expensive wool jacket that dwarfed her small frame, and his face hardened. "Yes," he said, his voice grim. "Let's go."